


Fading Scars

by the1crazycatlady



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Aftermath, Agony, Aquaphobia, Cemetery, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Paris (City), Persia, References to Canon, Rings, Roses, Running Away, minor creative liberty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Christine leaves the phantom for Raoul, the ghost flees to Persia. After violently attacking a man who mocks him, he is brought forth to the Persian daroga.</p><p>Takes place mostly after the events of the 2004 film, with minor Susan Kay elements added after I read her novel. Some aspects taken from the Gaston Leroux novel and the Lon Chaney silent film.</p><p>(...who cares about total historical accuracy...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fading Scars

**_January, 1871_ ** **_  
_ **

Agony.

That was the one thing the phantom knew right then: agony.

As he smashed the mirrors, he saw his awful, wretched face shatter with the glass, and it made him feel more in control. And then he remembered Christine's kiss and a scream wrenched itself from his throat, deep and sonorous.

He moaned inside himself and grabbed at his face; he wished he could tear it off and throw it away, never to be seen from again. The devil's child dug his fingers into his cheeks and brushed at his tears. He said Christine's name and picked at the ring. Then, sobbing, he yanked off one of his gloves and shoved the ring down onto his pinky.

He stood up and knew one thing: away. He needed to get away. But he could hear sounds coming toward him, like people running and screaming, so there was no way he could go out the front entrance.

It was a good thing that he had prepared the house for this very situation.

Across from Christine's room was his own, and in his room was the coffin and a trapdoor leading up to the higher cellars of the opera house. He grabbed a mask from the closet and was about to throw a rope up the trapdoor when he saw the monkey.

It was a creepy little thing, that monkey was - wearing Persian robes and holding cymbals, it would play music and clap the instruments together with the same cheesy grin never leaving its face. But the phantom loved this monkey all the same; it reminded him of the monkey from his childhood, the only kind soul before Madame Giry had come and saved him from that hell.

His heart pained just looking at the monkey. He paused, then ran to it. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands, turning it on and letting it play. The cymbals crashed and soft, sweet background music circled around the phantom's head. He drew in a fractured breath and then put the music box down, crouching onto his knees so he could look at it closer. After a moment, he put his mask down and said good-bye.

Two hours later, a mysterious man clutching his breast and with a hideous burn on half of his face demanded passage on a train in the direction of Persia. He had more than enough money and the train officials made room for him somehow, somewhere.

 

 

 **_February, 1871_ ** **_  
_ **

The train had been cramped, smelly, and uncomfortable to be on. When the phantom finally got to Persia, he hadn't bathed in weeks and had the smell of an unwashed pig. His hair was tangled and greasy and he had frightened many a woman with his loud crying - or perhaps they were just scared because the sight of him was far worse than anything Satan could devise for their nightmares.

There was nowhere for the phantom to go, of course - he was too proud to stay in one of those despicable riffraff places, no matter how desperate he was. It was far better to rot on the streets and terrify the collection of Orients with his hideousness. It was a petty life, but not one he was unaccustomed to: attention! the carnival's in town! come see Erik, the Devil's Child!

However, the scorn was painful - after three weeks, he couldn't bear it anymore and put a sack over his head, as he had done as a child. He kept his head bowed and acted no more nor less than any other peasant on the street. He held out a hat and kept himself huddled on a street corner, nodding at someone when they showed mercy.

But that man... What the man had done had been unforgivable.

He'd kicked the fallen Opera Ghost's shoe and snorted, pointing and jeering. Then he'd started to laugh and the phantom had felt himself snap inside. Screaming, he'd flung himself at the man, tightening his hands around his neck and watching gleefully as he gasped for breath; then the phantom had slammed the back of the man's head onto the pavement.

Some Persian officials took him in their arms and pulled him away, shouting at him in their foreign tongue. The phantom didn't understand them at all, as he only spoke French and a few words of English, so, because of this, he swore at them and called them all sorts of nasty things to make himself feel a bit better.

The Persians took him to another of their kind, this one in rich, dark clothes swathed up to his bright jade eyes. At the arrival of the ghost, this particular Persian stood up and spoke harshly to the others, saying who knows what. The phantom sat on the floor, recoiling when his sack was removed forcefully and suddenly catching glimpse of Christine's ring. He stared at it, entranced and hurt to the core. He kissed it; "I love you, Christine."

"Monsieur," the Persian said, disturbing his reverie. "Monsieur, do you know why you are here?"

The phantom looked up at him, surprised and caught off-guard for a moment. Then the Opera Ghost stood up indignantly and pursed his lips.

"You speak French," he remarked, evading the question.

The man nodded. "I do indeed." He smiled slightly and his thick, mighty eyebrows revealed utmost amusement at the phantom of the opera's expense; the ghost narrowed his eyes.

"I killed someone because he was mocking me," he stated, crossing his arms across his chest, "very much the way you are now."

"Are you going to kill me, monsieur?"

The phantom was startled with the question and drew back a bit in response. He scowled at the Persian and was amazed to see that the man continued to stare at him long and hard.

The phantom chuckled softly. "I don't know, should I?"

The Persian shrugged and sat back down on the ground. "I do not know or care, monsieur, but I will have you know that if you do, you will have nothing but death awaiting you." He smiled with even more amusement. "But then, you already have that fate, so who am I to stop you from securing it more surely?"

The man had the guts of someone entirely of iron, noted the Opera Ghost with interest. Never before had someone so readily played with their life this way; it intrigued the ghost more and more with every second. At last, he got down on his knees and stared at the Persian furiously.

"What's your name?" he asked.

 

 

 **_July, 1871_ ** **_  
_ **

The phantom could finally laugh, but it ached his heart to do so. He always felt like he was betraying sweet Christine's love and memory when he was with the Persian, but he also couldn't regret having ever shoved all that money into the train attendant's hands and slipping onto that damnable train for Persia. He assured himself that what had happened happened, and yet he still ached. He loved Christine, and he knew he always would.

The Persian was just fun to be with; being a member of law enforcement, he knew when to keep his mouth shut but also had the annoying ability to pry valuable information out of you before you even knew what you were saying. But the daroga mostly let the phantom be a phantom and not anything more. "No more murders," he would say whenever the ghost lost his temper. For some reason, this helped the Opera Ghost relax and feel less inclined to kill someone.

Perhaps it was because when the Persian said that, he would put a hand on the phantom's shoulder and give him That Look.

The only thing the phantom didn't like about the situation he was in - even though it had free lodging, free food, free pretty much everything - the only problem was that he was stuck in it. The Persian refused to let him go anywhere because both of them could be killed if the phantom escaped. It was part of the deal - the Persian would keep the Opera Ghost from facing the consequences of his actions in exchange for companionship and service to the shah.

The phantom hated it, and it made him hate the Persian a little, too.

Not that he would ever admit that, even to himself. The daroga was too nice and, frankly - shudder - too adorable for that depravity.

The Opera Ghost thought that it was interesting to note that the Persian, curiously enough, had a deathly fear of water. The daroga didn't say it outright, but it was very clear to the ghost - whenever his servant, Darius, poured a bath, the Persian would keep the door unlocked and the phantom could hear him panicking, even from his place in the garden across the house. He had eventually gone over and knocked on the door, asking if the Persian was all right. Of course the answer was a lie: "I'm fine!"

Whatever - it didn't concern the phantom, so he didn't think about it. He began working on a new opera; he didn't entirely know what it was about at the time, or even what the title was, but the premise intrigued him immensely.

 

 

 **_December, 1871_ ** **_  
_ **

The Persian was a booby, but also very fond of the phantom: he consented to the ghost's proposal to visit the coast during what the phantom was used to referring as the Christmas season. The Persian didn't celebrate Christian holidays, of course - neither did the phantom, frankly - so it was mostly just for a change of scenery.

Or that's what it was supposed to be.

The whole bloody nightmare began when the phantom announced that he was going to go down to the beach itself; the Persian forbid it. The ghost had laughed in his face, not seeing particularly how the Persian could stop him.

Remarks like this made the Persian's dark, ebony cheeks develop a slightly reddish tint. But then, after further prodding, he agreed to accompany the phantom down to the beach. "You deserve that much for your good behavior," he remarked ominously.

The phantom plotted his movements slyly. He and the Persian sat on the rocks, looking out at the mucky green bowl of sea water. The phantom had to admit that he admired the Persian's guts right then, for the only trace of aquaphobia he registered from the other man was a slightly tighter grip on his seat and a minute trace less of his normal sarcasm and bad jokes.

The phantom stood up. "I'm going to go closer, daroga." He kicked off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pant legs. "Come closer to the water, I might run away!"

"You'd be a fool to do so," the Persian replied tightly.

At this, the phantom laughed. "And you'd be a fool not to take my suggestion into extreme consideration."

The Persian sighed with exasperation and the phantom backed away, stepping out a little into the water. The Persian was seen to go a little pale as he got closer and sat tightly on some rocks as close to the water as you could get without physically touching it. The Opera Ghost laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, letting it fly free. He sang a few high notes for dramatic irony, then came forward and leaned against the Persian's rock.

"Are you having fun, daroga?"

The Persian tucked his feet under his thighs. "Yes, very much so. You?"

"Oh, an absolutely wonderful time," the phantom replied. "Why don't you join me?"

Before the Persian could protest and make excuses, the phantom wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him downward. There was a loud shriek and the two of them were suddenly lying in shallow water that hardly went up to their mid-calves. The Opera Ghost laughed and splashed at the daroga, who was trembling like a leaf with wide green eyes.

The Persian said some things the phantom couldn't understand because of the language barrier. He stood up quickly, scurrying to shore and hobbling some thirteen feet away, and then eventually collapsing down onto his knees. His knees gave out and his face was immersed in sand.

The phantom snorted and emerged from the water, going over to the good daroga. He flopped down next to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What an ass you are, daroga."

The Persian pulled his head up and rolled over onto his back; he glared at the ghost and eventually pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"Don't do that again," he stated, voice more harsh than the phantom had ever heard it.

The Opera Ghost smiled and shook his head. "Or what?" he wondered. "You'll throw me in jail, dear daroga? Have me executed?" He cackled. "I know you wouldn't." He jabbed a finger into the Persian's chest. "You don't have the courage to, do you? After all, you can't even stand three inches of harmless seawater."

The Persian picked at his soaked, sand-encrusted clothes and stood up, knees wobbling. "What do you know?" he wondered softly; "I just might."

The phantom regarded the daroga skeptically and shrank back when the other man gave him That Other Look. The one that said: I am Very Upset With You Right Now. It was the sort of Look that made the phantom ashamed of everything, from his hideous face to his awful clothes to the sparkling, shiny ring on his pinky finger.

He hung his head. "I'm sorry, daroga," he whispered. "I... I'm sorry."

The Persian shakily reached up and straightened his atstrakahn cap. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you hurt me this way."

"What?" The phantom stood up. "Daroga, it was just... I mean..."

"I took you into my house," the Persian scolded, "and kept you from execution. Because I _liked_  you - you made me laugh. I thought that you didn't deserve death. And this is how you repay me?" He trembled, then hung his head. "Maybe I was wrong about you."

For whatever reason, this hit the Opera Ghost like a fist in the abdomen. He could feel the impact deep inside himself and a fist formed next to his thigh - the ring dug deep into his palm, but the phantom hardly noticed the pain. His face completely fell and he started shaking almost as much as a scared daroga immersed in the murky green depths of the ocean.

Agony.

 

 

 **_February, 1872_ ** **_  
_ **

The opera had finally started to develop a plot. In it, a young man was trying to travel the world and discover true love, but an insufferable Oriental was holding him back. The phantom didn't know this Orient's motives yet, nor the character itself; the inspiration would come when it did and everything would make sense.

He worked feverishly on it late into the night, casting sideways glances at Christine's ring when everything seemed hopeless. He would utter her name and there was still the same beauty to it, making him smile - but then he would remember that she was with that accursed, whiny Raoul de Chagny and it killed him.

The death was temporary, though, for he soon revived.

The night came where the Oriental again refused to let the young man go. This would be the climactic point of the opera, with great musical flourishes and a fabulous duet and graceful ballerinas prancing elegantly on stage extensions suspended above.

But the phantom's mind was blank. He gaped at the paper, watched as a droplet of ink graced the tip of his pen and wait for action. Overwhelmed with frustration, he threw down the pen and ran his fingers through his hair, groaning.

There was a knock on his chamber door; he jumped up to his feet, startled, then reached quickly for his mask and bid the caller welcome.

It was the Persian, holding the zistboom; the phantom sat down awkwardly.

The daroga held out the flower. "Where did you get this?"

The phantom shrugged and the Persian sighed.

The daroga picked at the black ribbon. "And this?"

The Opera Ghost darted his gaze away with the slyness and cunning of a starved fox. "Just something I picked up somewhere."

The Persian crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You left my watch without permission."

"My dear daroga," the phantom began, "I promise you that I didn't murder anyone, nor did I steal your money."

"We'll see once Darius checks my funds." The Persian sat down next to him and glanced around the room. "Don't you think this place is rather impersonal?" he asked next.

"It's fine," the phantom argued. "If there were things everywhere, I wouldn't be able to work."

The Persian looked away from the scary multitude of lit candles. "Oh, you are writing something?"

The phantom stiffened unnecessarily. "An opera, yes."

"What is it about?" The Persian's eyes sparkled. "Or is a pathetic booby like myself not allowed to know?"

The phantom laughed quietly and turned away. "You really are a booby, daraoga." He sighed. "But I suppose you can know. Simply put, an Oriental is keeping a young man from exploring the world and searching for his true love."

There was an ominous pause, then: "Really? And why is the Oriental doing this?"

The Opera Ghost frowned. "I...don't know."

"Come, come." The Persian leaned over and held out the flower. "You definitely know, the idea just hasn't struck you yet." He took the ghost's hand and dropped the zistboom onto it. "I know you know."

_Sweet lad, can't you see?_

_The answer's right in front of you_

The phantom regarded the Persian skeptically. The daroga stared back, then winked like a child, his dramatic eyebrows sinking and rising like a ship on water.

_Fiend of Orient_

Please, why don't you tell me

_I don't know_

The zistboom was basically an inverted tulip. Really, everything about Persia was upside-down, definitely nothing at all like the Phantom of the Opera had expected. Also, minor note, remember to be careful of the zistboom, for the grasslike leaves are secretly as sharp as knives; Persia was like that, too.

"I still haven't forgiven you for what you did at the seaside," the daroga said. "I want you to understand that."

The phantom nodded slowly. "I do."

"Good." The daroga stood up and went over to the door. "In that case, I'll be leaving now. I have work to do." He turned and looked back, face solemn save for the eyes.

_Do I have to tell you straight out?_

The Opera Ghost looked back at him.

Please.

The Persian shook his head with amusement and the phantom stood up. He held out the zistboom and said: "Don't forget this."

The daroga's face lit up, then went ridiculously serious; he took the flower back. "Good - now I have evidence of your infidelity."

"Infidelity?" the ghost repeated.

"Of course, dear - after all, who could resist you, of all people?" The Persian tapped the phantom lightly on the chest. However, when he saw the ghost's Look, he sighed and shook his head.

"I am joking," he said.

"I am hideous," the phantom replied, "unnamed and alone in this world. I am a creature of the Devil."

He expected for the Persian to agree wholeheartedly and leave the phantom to his work, but instead the daroga shook his head and leaned back against the door.

"You're not ugly."

The phantom stiffened. "You haven't seen my hellbound face, daroga - you aren't one to talk."

"You are not ugly, and being nameless and alone is not a crime."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't make me any less appealing."

"You are very appealing," the Persian remarked. "You have a wonderfully intricate personality that astounds me more with every second I get to know you better."

"Women don't look at personalities," the ghost said coldly.

The Persian's face fell and, slowly, quietly, he hung his head. "Well," he began quietly. "Maybe there are others out there who will."

He quickly turned and left the phantom to wonder what had just happened.

 

 

**_March, 1872_ **

When the Opera Ghost had been a child, his parents had been aghast by his awful face after he'd burnt it in the fire; they'd sent him to the traveling circus. This is our child, Erik, they said; he's horribly deformed and has no hope of recovery - take him.

So the phantom became the Devil's Child. Eventually, he couldn't think of himself as anything but the Devil's Child and his birth name slipped into the cracks of oblivion. He was the Devil's Child and, later, the Phantom of the Opera. He had a full list of awful and remarkably descriptive names to choose from.

The Persian only had a few names, and they were honestly very boring. They were just little nicknames the phantom had given him because he couldn't bring himself to say his real name; that was just too awkward. No, he was just the Persian, the daroga, or a great big booby; it was easier that way.

The daroga gave the phantom a sideways glance and his eyebrows flashed magic. He casually asked about the opera.

The ghost tensed. "It's not finished."

"Still stuck on that last scene?" The Persian was amused by this, and it made the phantom feel understandably insulted.

"It's a very important moment in the story," he shot back. "Of course I am struggling with it, you awful booby"

The Persian wrapped an arm around him. "Maybe a change of scenery would do you good. I haven't been feeling well lately, so the shah has ordered me to take some time off."

The phantom blinked at him, and for the first time, he noticed how thin and frail the Persian looked. He saw a slight paleness in the man's face and quickly pulled away, took the Persian's arm, and sat him down gently.

"I was thinking we could go to France," the daroga continued, lightly waving the ghost away. "I've never been to Paris."

The phantom stood up, shaking his head. "Absolutely not." He fiddled with the ring and then yanked it off his finger. "That is out of the question."

"Why?"

"Because... Because."

The Persian stood up and eyed him nervously. "Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong?" the phantom repeated with a harsh laugh. He held out the ring and then found himself ripping off the mask. "Yes, everything is wrong! Why wouldn't something be wrong?"

Instead of recoiling at the sight of the ghost's wretched face, the Persian just eyed the diamond ring and crossed his arms. "So you have burn scars on one side of your face," he said. "Did this woman reject you because of that?"

"Yes!" Then the phantom of the opera paused and thought about it. "No... I don't know, she just left me for that slimy goody-goody two-shoes Raoul."

"Then that is her doing," the daroga replied, "and you are not to blame. Unless, of course, you did something..."

"Did something?" the ghost repeated. "I loved her!"

"That is in the past, phantom. It was a year ago." The Persian swallowed. "There are other things for you now, if you'd just give them a chance-"

"Like what?" the Opera Ghost snapped. "Persia? The zistbooms? _You?"_  He threw down his mask and flopped into the closest pile of pillows. "What treasures."

"It is not my fault you are a stubborn man who is as blind as you are a headache!"

The phantom looked up, surprised - throughout all this time, even when he'd scared the daroga at the seaside, the man had never shouted at him. He'd been angry, yes, but he'd always spoken low and humbly. The sudden change was more awful than any of the tortures the phantom could contrive in his hellish mind.

"Daroga..."

"You seem so unhappy," the Persian interrupted, "and all I want is to change that. I want you to stop hating yourself like this and stop pining after things that are not...going...to happen." In the blink of an eye, the daroga snatched the ring away and held it up for all to see. "Please, you...you..." He drew back and shook his head. "Please just stop and think about the quality of your life." His voice was back to its normal, calm and suave, but with an unusual hint of pleading that was not habitual to him.

"She was the only one who made my music take flight, daroga." The phantom hung his head and held out a hungry hand. "Please, may I have Christine's ring back now?"

The Persian glanced down at it, turned it over in his hands, then got down on his knees and gave it back to the Opera Ghost. To be extra-helpful, he reached over and got the mask for him and gave the ghost that as well. He stood up with all the grace and care available in the world and wished the phantom good luck with his opera.

"Maybe," he remarked casually, "we can go to Paris another time... If you'd like."

The phantom licked his lips, shaking his head. "I doubt I'll ever want to go back."

There was still the doubt part, however, and as the Opera Ghost stared up at the daroga, he could tell that that little sliver of doubt was also what the other man was thinking about.

 

 

**_August, 1872_ ** **_  
_ **

It was only natural that the phantom would grow too clever for his own good. He'd create too many pleasures for the shah and the shah would see to his execution so the ghost could keep his genius dead within him.

It was only natural that that would happen, and it became just as natural that the Opera Ghost couldn't stay in Persia anymore.

It was the middle of the night. Furious and defeated by the opera's final scene, the phantom had collapsed in defeat at his desk, head throbbing and hand aching from his excursions. Suddenly, somebody shook him, slapping the side of his face and hissing into his ear: "Wake up! Wake up!"

For some reason, the phantom had been surprised to see that it was the Persian calling on him so late; the ghost straightened up in his seat and instinctively reached for his mask.

"Quickly!" the daroga hissed. "You need to get out of here!"

"What?" The phantom put his mask on and started gathering his papers together. "Why, daroga?"

"The shah has given orders to arrest you," the Persian muttered, reaching over for the ghost's coat and holding it out to him. "However, if we act quickly enough, you can escape."

"But, daroga-"

"Quiet! Just gather your things so we can be going." The Persian checked his watch and heaved a sigh. "We have to act quickly."

It was deep in the darkness of night, and, looking up, the Opera Ghost saw that there was a sliverish crescent moon; the lack of light offered them further ways to remain hidden. The phantom drew in a deep breath and tagged along after the daroga. Their feet slapped roughly down onto the pavement and the haunting fear that they would be heard came and began nagging on the devil's child. He stared at the back of the Persian's head, willing himself to focus on the daroga and to follow him to what they both hoped would be safety.

It was then the phantom so fully realized how much he trusted that damned booby - he trusted him with his life and did not care to see that his life was in the daroga's hands. The ghost was ashamed of the abuse and mockery he had given the good saint of a Persian daroga, his friend.

His friend.

The Persian halted and turned back to the phantom of the opera, giving him his bag. "Take this," he murmured. "There should be enough supplies for you to make it for three weeks. I also put in spare paper and ink for your oper-"

"Booby."

The Persian paused, squinting at the phantom through the darkness.

The ghost swallowed. "Daroga, there... I..." He didn't entirely know what to say. With Christine, feelings of affection had flowed forth from his body with almost flawless ease, but when he was talking to the Persian - a fellow man, an equal - his tongue grew dry and he was left wordless.

He opened his mouth again.

But the Persian just shook his head, putting a hand on the Opera Ghost's arm and steering him away. "There's no time for sentiment now - you need to get away."

"But, daroga." The phantom grabbed the Persian's shoulders, holding him tightly. "Daroga, what about you?"

The Persian looked down at the the other man's arm, face bitter and sad. "I will be fine."

"They'll kill you!"

The daroga looked at the Opera Ghost straight in the eye, his expression now soft and warm and beautiful.

"Don't you think I realize that?" he whispered.

"But why?" the ghost asked. "What worth am I to you? I tormented you, triggered your aquaphobia... I'm so awful and hideous..."

The Persian sighed, shaking his head. "Do you really think that you are so ugly there's no one out there who can love you in despite of it?"

The phantom straightened up, his feathers ruffled. "Of course," he said. "I am the Devil's Child-"

"No, phantom." The Persian raised his eyebrows up. "You are nothing but a man with a minor disfigurement on one side of his face. You are also a murderer, but, somehow, you have an undeniable charm." He reached out and straightened the ghost's coat, flattening the lapels and lingering sadly for a moment. "That's why I'm saving you, phantom. That's why I'm letting you go."

The Opera Ghost drew in a breath and lightly cocked his head, leaning forward; the Persian pulled away with a small, obvious shake of the head.

"No," he said. "There is no time for this - you need to get away."

"I'll never see you again."

"I never seemed to matter to you." There was bitterness in the Persian's tone and it made the phantom choke on shame.

He shrugged sadly, throwing the bag over his shoulder. Then, the Persian grabbed his shirt and tugged him away, towards the city limits. Beyond the gates were dangerous jungles crawling with deadly creatures like tigers and snakes and men with guns, but they were nothing compared to the infamous Phantom of the Opera. He knew that he would be all right. He knew he wouldn't die.

However, there was someone else whose fate was nowhere near as certain.

"Come with me," he said to the Persian.

The daroga stared at him, surprised, then laughed tragically. "Me? I can't."

"You must. At least to be safe. To live, daroga - you can't die..." The phantom could feel himself experiencing the agony and sorrow from before, the previous year, this time for someone so simple and saintly as the Persian daroga.

"I don't want you to die," he said, voice cracking.

The Persian shook his head, smiling softly. "It will be my punishment for ever getting attached to you."

The Opera Ghost put his hand on the daroga's shoulder. "But you are one of the few people who has had the courage to do that, booby, and no one should suffer for their good deeds." He swallowed. "Therefore, you are coming with me."

"You're going to kidnap me?" The Persian gently eyed the phantom, his entire being glowing all over.

The phantom nodded seriously. "If necessary."

"And you are, after all, one to always get what you want," mused the Persian.

"I consider that the highest of truths," the Opera Ghost replied.

They disappeared together into the darkness.

 

 

**_October, 1872_ **

They had held hands in blackness, under the light of the moon and under the protective canopy of trees. They'd stolen away on thousands of trains, hiding in the cargo portion and telling quiet stories to pass the time. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms.

They were on a train. The phantom had found that, no matter how loud trains were, you could get used to to them and that they could become relaxing and soothing. The constant shaking became the rocking most mothers gave their babies, the loud crashes were just white noises, and the cold, hard surroundings were somehow better for your back.

In the darkness, the Persian faded away so all your could see were his white Persian robes rise and fall as he breathed. Deeming him asleep or too far gone to be considered awake, the phantom stood up quietly and bent down next to the other man. He blinked at him and brushed his thick black hair out of his eyes. Then he leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

The daroga's eyes fluttered open like butterfly wings and the Opera Ghost froze. They stared at each other in the darkness.

The Persian reached up and cupped the phantom's face, smiled so that his jade eyes lit up, and then he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

Taking a deep breath, the phantom took the daroga's hand and rested it on his chest. Then he removed his mask and set it down on a crate, lying down next to the booby. He gently tugged on the coat the Persian had lately begun to use for a pillow and rested his head on it, next to the daroga's. He looked up at the ceiling of the train car, wishing that he fell asleep as easily as his companion did.

_I know that you are dreaming_

_And that you cannot hear me_

He paused, looking over at the Persian; he found the daroga on his side, facing the phantom with his eyes open.

"Oh, I can hear you, phantom," he muttered softly. "I can hear you loud and clear."

The Opera Ghost's hair fell into his face and became a tangled mess of knots and split ends.

_Men on this earth once saw me_

_Shadow-hidden and screaming -_

They once knew me as Erik.

"Erik," the daroga repeated. The name seemed clunky and there was a long silence between the two men. They listened to the train bustle along and the keys of a steward jangle and swing as the official passed by them.

But then.

"May I know you as Erik?" the Persian asked.

 

 

**_December, 1919_ ** **_  
_ **

The news of the beautiful countess Christine de Chagny's death reached the phantom of the opera two years too late.

His heart had sunk down within him and he had had to sit down, lest he should fall and hurt his fragile body. When he began to examine his emotions, he found that there was nothing there. He was empty. He did not feel excessive grief or guilt or sadness, nor overpowering joy or love or happiness; he felt a mediocre nothing.

His entire life had gone - the Paris Opera House was destroyed because of the great war and when the phantom had gone underground to secure some of his old belongings, he had found the entire place looted. France was a ghost town of misery and bombshells; there was nothing left for him.

And now... Christine...

The phantom considered looking into how specifically she had died, but then he realized that he didn't care. All that mattered now was that she was gone.

He crept across the snow, leaving footprints in his wake. The cemetery was deserted and he recalled the sword fight with Raoul, how the snow had stung at his face and the sharp pain when the sword had sliced his skin.

The phantom did not cry.

The gravestone was large and cold, ornate with roses and a small photograph of the interred. She was older and looked quite tired, and the ghost noted coldly that the beauty had most nearly drained itself out of her face.

The phantom did not cry.

He pulled the rose out of his pocket. It was a simple red rose with his signature black ribbon tied around the stem; snug in the folds of the ribbon was a simple diamond ring.

But not just any diamond ring.

It was Christine's diamond ring.

The Opera Ghost put the rose down on Christine's grave and hummed the verses of a few hymns; he had learned them when he was a child, before everything had all gone so terribly wrong. He lowered his gaze and pulled up his hood, turning and walking away.

The phantom did not cry.

The daroga was waiting outside the front gate. He had snow sprinkled in his silver hair and melting in the grooves of the atstrakahn cap. He was rubbing his hands together and blowing warm air onto his fingers, shivering in the cold that he had never really grown accustomed to.

When the Persian saw the phantom, he lowered his hands down and the ghost took one of them in his own.

The daroga did not say a word.

They began to walk away together, the only sounds around them being the snow crunching under their feet, the wind, and the clatter of an approaching carriage.

The phantom did not cry. Instead, there was one thing he felt right then: satisfaction.

Satisfaction.


End file.
